David Moyes was a victim of the pomposity of Manchester United

I took my youngest son to a football match on Easter Monday. It used to be something I wryly called a ‘treat’ when the kids were younger, but we usually lost in such depressing circumstances each time that I would then feel the need to give them another treat immediately afterwards, to alleviate the misery. Bowling or pizza or something. Not any more. They are old enough to know what they’re likely to be in for and conscious that their allegiance to the team, Millwall, is inescapable and probably genetic, like ginger hair or a susceptibility to Parkinson’s Disease.

Actually, I say inescapable — the older one escaped by insisting that he had revision to do for his GCSEs. I begged and cajoled, told him the exams don’t really matter and that this was a six-pointer, a crucial game, and I heard him sort of waver for a moment. ‘Who are we playing again?’ he asked.